


A Hollow Crown For All Seasons

by Leigh Jackwood (Leigh_Jackwood)



Series: Ex-ATG [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Brothers, F/M, Family, Gen, M/M, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leigh_Jackwood/pseuds/Leigh%20Jackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a prophecy made about the sons of Thranduil, one Legolas never really believed in until he saw the consequences of unfulfilled fates. At first it seems like an impossible choice: who out of them should leave and who should stay to die. Middle-Earth though, appeared to be quite happy to send every brother to the Halls of the Dead. Long-counted the luckiest out of them, Legolas soon finds that it is indeed a hollow crown they fight for and one he is not destined to wear in winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hollow Crown For All Seasons

** A Hollow Crown For All Season **

****

** Chapter One **

****

_For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground_

_And tell sad stories of the death of kings:_

_How some have been depos'd, some slain in war,_

_Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,_

_Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd,_

_All murder'd: for within the hollow crown_

_That rounds the mortal temples of a king_

_Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits,_

_Scoffing his state and grinning his pomp;_

_Allowing him a breath, a little scene,_

_To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks,_

_Infusing him with self and vain conceit_

_As if this flesh which walls about our life_

_Were brass impregnable; and humour'd thus_

_Comes at the last, and with a little pin_

_Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!_

_-Richard II (Act III Scene II), William Shakespeare_

_  
_A prophecy, I was told, was merely a superstition, an educated guess at what was to happen. It may never come to pass, indeed the very act of having heard a prophecy alters the course of the listener cuasing them to take a different root. A prophecy does not happen because it has been foretold, it comes true despite having being foretold.

As with many things I was told, it turned out to be a lie.

There are somethings that must come to pass in order for the world to keep turning. The easiest way to explain is to point out examples. Feanor had to craft the simarils. The Sun and the Moon had to be made. Few of the wise know that these have been foretold or exactly how they must happen. Then again, few of the wise really know anything. I have met many we call wise and they rely on luck, good timing and the skill of others as much as any fool does.

Back to prophecies. Unhelpfully, they are usually in the most cryptic form that their givers see no reason to explain. Glorfindel once said to me that they do it for a reason, that if fate was so simple to read everyone would be off doing tremendous things. I first heard it whispered around the court, that there would be four crowns. Indeed, my father wore one for each season and I remember my grandfather doing the same. I did not think that meant there would be four kings. The thought that our father would one day not be king never entered our minds until much later on. Perhaps if Hestlean or myself had been the eldest, we would have realised that one day it could possibly come to us. Such a thing never occured to Orision.

The passing seasons foretold an autumn and a winter but no new spring. Neither did it mention which king we were currently on, for all I knew, it counted the old lords of the Silvan elves as kings and we were already in winter. This garbled, nonsense prophecy was whispered around the fire and when no one could think of another song at the end of a feast. I took no notice of it during my childhood.

I often wonder if it was written in such a prophecy that I should meet Yarna and everything that entailed thereafter was already decided. She has yet to give me a straight answer. I do not think that what we chose to do was an already laid path, rather it had certain milestones we had to reach but ultimately, the route we took was up to us. It was the same with my brothers: some of us had to do certain things, it did not matter which who.

Orision, Hestlean, Matlar and myself were born in Amon Lanc before father moved our people north. Matlar has never known any king other than father, Fiul has never known any home besides the caves by the river. Five sons, father was very nearly on par with Feanor. My choice of comparison is not random, even if it irritates my kin.

This is not an account of our childhood, merely an account of how I reached the decision that has led me here to the edge of the sea. It feels strange, sitting in Mithrandir's study writing what Cirdan charged me with putting into words. Around me are the things Yarna grew up with, keepsakes of her first family. She never came back here, not even after Aragorn's coronation. It does seem odd, she went back to Isengard. If any of my brothers ever read this, take it as an apology. I should not have kept this from you. Orision, whatever plans I had for fulfilling the prophecy they never included that day on the mountain. Hestlean, there is not much I can say except that I am sorry. I would take your place if I could. Matlar and Fiul, I hope you never have to know what we did, that despite everything we have not failed you as our younger brothers.

 

It is a hollow crown we grew up serving. It means very little to anyone. What joy did it bring our father? It's sole purpose to our grandfather was to lead him to his death. This crown robbed us of our mother. I cannot blame it for Orision's death or Hestlean's, for those I have only myself to blame. All too briefly it sat on my temples and it with great sorrow that I relinquish it, not for love of it but for fear of what new evil it will wreak on my brother.  
Fiul, you may be have a crown but you shall never be a king. Our people are gone, whatever fading souls are left shall wander slowly towards the sea or fade into the fabric of the earth. In Mithlond, the Grey Havens, there lies a ship. Its task is to carry the elven princes across the sea. Matlar, Fiul, Elladan, Elrhoir, Rumil, Orophim. My brothers and my friends.

After this there are but three ships left to sail. One shall come from the Anduin bearing the last of the intended Fellowship. One shall sail from Mithlond bearing the last of the great: Glorfindel, Erestor, Celeborn and Radagast. The last, the final ship shall carry Cirdan, the Shipwright and the fate of the world. I would that that ship sailed all the sooner and that the dawn it will bring could warm the sky around me. I fear it shall be a long time in the coming.


End file.
